Recently our mail person has not only been delivering our mail but also a small crunchy biscuit for his friend, the little brown dog with the mopey face and manipulative disposition. If I’m up and around and not back in the bathroom trying to keep down this morning’s dry bowl of Golden Grahams, I’ll open the door when the mail person stops by and let Chuck say hi.

Our neighborhood is one of those old neighborhoods where the mailboxes are not so much mailboxes but slots built into the side of the house, and the mail person has to walk around and approach each house to deliver the post. And because of this architectural situation you really get to know your friendly, neighborhood mail person, whether you like it or not.

Our mail person is a towering 6 foot 5 inch mountain man who probably, when not dressed in mail person clothing, scares the living shit out of small children. He’s gigantic, not just in height but in gait, in voice, and in shoe-size. He has gigantic teeth, and when he speaks with his gigantic voice you feel like he might swallow you with his gigantic jaws. Oddly enough, you get the sense that this man is the most gentle person in the world, not just because he remembers your name or because he’s always smiling with his gigantic teeth, but because all the dogs in the neighborhood love him. And no dog loves him more than my dog loves him.

My dog loves him so much that he will sit by the closed front door and whimper listlessly when he hears our mail person delivering mail across the street. When I let him out to say hi you’d think his rump was going to twist off his body and fly across the yard, he’s wagging his tail so violently. He’s just so full of love that he can’t sit still or keep his ears in one position, and on occasion he’s had a hard time controlling his bladder all over the mail person’s gigantic legs.

When I happen to be back in the bathroom negotiating with the toilet and my upset stomach, the mail person will just deliver the mail without saying hi to Chuck. And let me tell you, there is no consoling that damn dog. It’s like trying to tell a 3-yr old that even though you told him you would take him to the park today he’s going to have to wait until tomorrow. You just don’t do that to a 3-yr old, not if you want to avoid a small-scale world war in your living room. (I know this only through observation, but believe me, if there is ever going to be a kid who screams when he doesn’t get his way, that kid will be MY KID).

Yesterday a neighborhood dog wandered onto our porch and stole the treat the mail person had left for Chuck on the windowsill. And I swear to God, when I told Chuck that it was going to be okay, that I would get him another treat, he looked up at me with gigantic tears in his eyes and said, “But I wanted that treat.”

If this isn’t preparation for the doom of motherhood, I DON’T KNOW WHAT IS.